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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368302">The Final Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluewoodensea/pseuds/bluewoodensea'>bluewoodensea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Letter for the King (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Backstory, Internal Conflict, M/M, archive warning to be on the safe side, references to anti Eviellan racism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 11:01:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368302</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluewoodensea/pseuds/bluewoodensea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Each man kills the thing he loves.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jabroot/Viridian (The Letter for the King)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Final Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>You stand in between me and not merely the living who stood closest, but between me and the closer graves.<br/>— Elizabeth Barrett Browning</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What lies between himself and Viridian is strong as death, thick as the shed blood of shamans.</p><p>***</p><p>He was born in an Eviellan village, on the banks of the Grey River: a little too close to the Unauwen border. When he was a boy, his village was attacked; he ran. He found himself on the other side of the river. He hid in the forest. He stole; he foraged. Without intending to, he found himself near the castle of the king. The marshal gave him work in the stables. He kept his head down as much as he could. He kept his hatred of King Favian to himself. He never spoke unbidden to the princes. Prince Iridian was similar in age to himself; Prince Viridian a few years younger. Viridian a slight, reserved boy, who quickly came to seem more at home in Jabroot’s company than that of his family. Jabroot attended him when riding. They did not speak very much. But he glimpsed the power Viridian had.</p><p>When Viridian, barely eighteen, formed an army and marched on Eviellan, he made Jabroot a scout. Jabroot was a good horseman then, and one of Unauwen’s fastest riders. He belonged to Unauwen now. He wanted to prove himself — from starveling orphan boy to able soldier. He has always been eyed distrustfully by the other soldiers, as he knew he would be. If he were a different man, he might have become their friend, but he was too quiet, too watchful; they did not like him enough to forgive him for being of Eviellan. But if he found it hard to return to his homeland as part of an invading force, he has never shown it. He has fought by Viridian’s side throughout the four-year campaign. Viridian relied on him, sent for him often, preferred his reports to those of the other scouts. The other soldiers find it strange the prince should favour a scout over his commanders but Viridian does not care. He is a gifted commander, respected by those under him. Jabroot has always remained loyal to him. </p><p>***</p><p>This is the last opportunity. The blood moon will rise tonight. The darkness will rise and the answering light. He should not have waited so long. He will die for this betrayal, whether he succeeds or not.  </p><p>Viridian must die: Jabroot has known it for years. To achieve his vision, Viridian has killed many; to maintain its order, he will kill more. But Jabroot has never before brought himself to turn on him. </p><p>It is the shamans he remembers, the mass executions that sicken him. No matter how long he has been away, he knows the shamans are part of Eviellan’s lifeblood; no matter how well he understands Viridian’s intent, he does not believe this should be the price. He tried to dissuade Viridian. Viridian will not be dissuaded. </p><p>The terrible purity and hunger of his mind, his ambition, his cause. His nature is one of fissiparous contradictions: his contempt for power and his pursuit of it, his desire for peace and his aptitude for violence. Viridian doesn’t lie. He doesn’t negotiate. Only men who want to justify their actions to themselves try to justify them to others, and Viridian is not one of them. His belief in the necessity of his actions is absolute. He has never for a moment faltered in anything. He does not believe in needless violence, but he believes every death he has brought about is imperative and foretold. He is more honest than his father or his brother. Without the prophecy, and what they have done for it, and what they will do for it, Jabroot would follow him to the death. </p><p>He will kill the man he has followed, the architect of what he hates. For months he has looked for a chance; for months he has let those chances pass by. Now there is only tonight. Tonight, in Viridian’s tent, before the blood moon rises.</p><p>He waits outside the tent, waits for Viridian to be alone. The sun has set. The moon has not yet risen.</p><p>Ride out with me, Viridian says, when Jabroot enters. Jabroot says nothing. He draws his dagger. He moves closer, slow and quiet, quiet as he learnt how to be so many years ago. Viridian’s back is turned towards him. This is the best opportunity he might have hoped for. Yet his hand shakes. Now he should strike fast, now. Yet his body hesitates.</p><p>He reminds himself of what they have done. The corpses. The children. The bodies gone to ash. War across his homeland. The power Viridian holds. The horror of what will come next.</p><p>Softly, Viridian says: Go ahead.</p><p>His face is to the mirror before them both. He must have seen the knife in Jabroot’s hand, or perhaps it is instinct alone, for he realises Viridian is not looking at the reflected scene. His eyes are closed.</p><p>Not like this, Jabroot thinks, shaken beyond measure. If he could, he would make death sudden and painless. It is not fear that restrains his hand. He is a soldier. He knows his own courage. But it is unnatural to see Viridian, who is a soldier too, who has immoveable faith in his purpose, welcome death so calmly. </p><p>Viridian’s eyes are open, now. He watches Jabroot in the mirror. Jabroot stares back at him.</p><p>He would rather kill Viridian in a struggle to the death. Not like this: Viridian’s eyes on his, Viridian waiting for the blow. He feels a coward. This act should fall to him alone; no one else has any place in it. </p><p>You have served me loyally, Viridian says. </p><p>He says, You have hated me.</p><p>Jabroot has no answer. In a life threaded with violence and desolation he has hated deeply. But he cannot know with any certainty that what he has felt for Viridian in all these years is hatred. </p><p>He has spent silent nights full of anger and hatred imagining this moment. Viridian dead at his hand. Viridian dead through accident. Viridian dead at the hand of an enemy, a rival, his brother. But always, ultimately, this: the two of them, alone, Viridian’s life in the balance between them. The weight of Viridian’s life, the terrible intimacy of his death: nobody else has earned this.</p><p>Viridian turns to him at last, but does not move. </p><p>Jabroot’s eyes sting him, betraying him. If their positions were reversed, Viridian would understand; he believes death a necessary price for peace. Killing Viridian would spare them all from the darkness, Viridian too. </p><p>You have my blessing, Viridian says. He comes closer. He seems to understand. Jabroot wants his understanding and wants to reject it. He tries again, one last attempt, to close the distance between them, to bury the blade where the armour is weak. An act of defence now, should he meet his own death tonight. Yet, again, he does not move, cannot force himself to strike. </p><p>To Viridian, who has distanced himself from his family, what lies between the two of them is more important than blood. He identifies himself simultaneously with the living and the dead, with the soldiers and their casualties, with Unauwen and Eviellan. He looks young in the lamplit tent, unbloodied.</p><p>He closes his hand over Jabroot’s, that is still shaking. His other hand cups Jabroot’s cheek. He feels the defeat in every muscle and bone. What chance he had is gone. Is it him, his own weakness; or the prophecy, keeping Viridian for its own purposes. It is a cruel prophecy, he thinks, to use people this way, turning them into instruments of destruction. </p><p>He is not used to being touched like this. He knows Viridian is unused to it too. </p><p>Viridian, standing close enough to kill. Viridian, the only one he has ever followed. Viridian, gently taking the dagger from his hand. </p><p>Viridian kisses him. </p><p>Against him, Viridian feels like any ordinary young man. No prince, no creature of prophecy. He might wish for that. For Viridian to have been born, like himself, with nothing, in the same village as each other; to have lived in peacetime, never knowing loss or destruction. </p><p>He kisses Viridian back, hard enough to hurt. He tastes sweat and blood and something dark as earth. His hand still feels empty without the knife. He kisses Viridian with all the anger and hatred and despair and love he has. As if this were vengeance. As if this could save them. Their mingled blood in his mouth. Viridian’s hand on his cheek. </p><p>You have my blessing, Viridian whispers in his ear, close as death, and Jabroot swallows against the question: his blessing to kill? His blessing to live? He presses his forehead into the curve of Viridian’s neck: the hard, ornate collar of his armour, the warm skin above it. He feels as if something has been torn out of him, that after tonight will be lost forever. </p><p>He rides out with Viridian, as Viridian asked. He prays Viridian fails, and survives, and turns from his path. He knows it will not be answered.</p>
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